


Someone Needs You

by fiascatta (Fiascatta)



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, Superwholock - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:11:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiascatta/pseuds/fiascatta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well. When you put it that way. Someone needs you.”</p>
<p>John was the last to be retrieved.<br/>The brothers, the detective and his doctor. The man with the blue box torn from time and the most important woman in the universe.</p>
<p>They need everyone together to fight what hides in the shadows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone Needs You

**Author's Note:**

> This is a snippet of writing based off of a Superwholock script being written by some of my friends, though this writing is my own.  
> Enjoy!

By now, he’d resigned himself to never seeing them again. No-one from his past; or his future, if you wanted to get technical about it. Under the sun of the past, he could work away all his memories, whether he wanted to or not. Hell, there wasn’t any time to stand there and feel sorry for himself. It was slow some days, but when there was work, you couldn’t afford to stand around and reminisce.

Snapping off a pair of gloves, he rinses his hands with running water piped in from only god-knew-where. Over the sound, he swears he can hear a mechanical sound.

A breeze flooding in around his legs, raising goosebumps on the skin even under his regulation uniform. John turned on the spot.

Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that blue box again.

The man with the short hair and suit stuck his head out of the door, glancing around at the landscape and nodding in affirmation. After a moment’s consideration, he stepped back inside and slammed the door behind him.

It was all John could do to stare.

The door opened again, and this time the Doctor was sporting a pair of square sunglasses and a grin, at complete odds with the serious expression he’d been wearing moments ago.

“John Watson!” He smiles, stepping out with hand outstretched. John doesn’t take it, considering that he’s still holding gloves stained with blood and bodily fluid.

His smile is tight. “Doctor.”

The Doctor’s nose wrinkles as some dust flies in front of him, landing on his shoes and staining the color dull. “So, this is your post? Can’t say it’s as great as you were making it sound, John, but then again, there’s a lot worse you could be in. Must be your idea of sun and sand.” He kicks at the road, a tiny ditch forming at his toes, hands in pockets. “You know, I’ve always wondered just what it is counts as R&R here. Not that I haven’t been to war before, but most of it was in trenches and even then it wasn’t for long. Can’t stand the sound of guns, you know. Probably would drive anyone off their rocker, eh?”

John raises an eyebrow. Not that he’s meaning to be stoic, but the Doctor’s rapidfire speech (does he even need to breathe?) sounds almost forced, like the easygoing smile he’s got plastered across his face. “Instead of standing there trying to make small talk, you could just tell me why you’re here. You promised you wouldn’t come back unless it was some kind of massive…. temporal emergency.” 

The months here had hardened him again, turned him back into the soldier he’d lost. His posture was ramrod straight, his look impassive. 

The Doctor could see that, and it worried him. Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock had been right. 

Wouldn’t be the first time.

The Doctor messed with the back of his hair. “Well. When you put it _that_ way. Someone needs you.”

 

\--

 

Sherlock was pacing the room, arms folded behind his back and an almost stormy look in his eyes. 

Sam was playing pacifist, if only because he figured that an angry Sherlock Holmes wasn’t one he’d want to be dealing with, especially on the job. “He’ll be back soon, you know.” He tried.

One look from the detective shut him up quickly.

Leant against a bookshelf behind his younger brother, Dean allowed himself a smirk at Sherlock’s expense. “Someone’s a bit on edge. Hell, I haven’t seen you like this since Cas first showed up.” He chuckled. 

The acid retort on Sherlock’s lips was silence by the strange sound of the blue box reappearing, fading in and out of the timeframe before solidifying with a rush of displaced air. The brothers, still somewhat suspicious of the Doctor - they had every right to be, considering the circumstances - kept their distance and watched, both of them looking ready to strike. 

Of course, they weren’t expecting someone new to step out of the police box. A man, hair cut close to his scalp and dust staining his regulation uniform, tan-lines peeking out from hemlines whenever he moved. Well, he didn’t move all that much once he caught sight of someone in front of him.

The Doctor popped up behind him with that saccharine smile. “I love reunions. Everyone’s just so happy. Well,” he amended, “after the whole deal with the speechlessness, that is.”

Another voice came from behind him, and you could tell the owner was smiling away. “Go on, John. You can’t just stand in the doorway like that forever. You’re making us look bad.” Donna, the owner of the voice in question, gave him a gentle shove out into the open.

Dean leant across to Sam and talked in a low voice. “So, I’m guessing that’s Watson?” Sam nodded, eyeing the English pair as though he were at a tennis match. “Bingo.”

John let out a laugh similar to a wheeze. “Right. Ha. This makes sense.” Letting out a gust of air, he looked back to the Doctor before glancing over at the Winchesters and Castiel. “Let me guess. You’re monsters, or more bloody aliens. Because apparently, miracles are happening left and right.” Another humorless laugh. “Time-travel here in a box that’s completely impossible, well, I thought that was just the beginning.”

Before any of the three had a chance to defend their humanity, John had wheeled around on his heels, the movement smart and sharp, eyes now affixed to Sherlock. “And then you.” 

Standing there, under the scrutiny of his partner, Sherlock didn’t move a muscle, only stared back, face just as impassive as John’s. 

It almost looked like he was waiting for something to happen.

That something came in the form of a newly energized John flying forward to punch Sherlock square in the face. The detective didn’t fight back, instead stumbling back and shivering as he fought an instinct to raise a hand to his injured face. 

John finally looked like himself again. Except a really, _really_ angry version.

“You complete arse!” Another hit, for all the wrongs he’d come to realize. “Three years, Sherlock, three bloody unbearable years sitting in that flat by myself. Does it say something, do you think, if when the Doctor-” He flung an arm TARDIS-wards, where the Doctor shrugged sheepishly. “-came along and told me he could take me whenever, wherever, I chose to go back out to Afghanistan! Because being in the middle of a bloody war was better than just sitting there letting myself die again. Because you were too... too _selfish_ to even tell me you were still alive!” He took a deep breath, not having paused for it between any of that. “And now you’re standing there looking like nothing’s changed, and you’re even still wearing that stupid coat just so you can look like a dramatic flouncing ponce and...” Throughout that entire rant, John had steadily been losing steam in his anger, before he sighed and leant forward to wrap his arms around Sherlock. “Don’t you ever do that again, you idiot.”

Throughout that entire speech, Sherlock hadn’t broken, hadn’t wavered. With all the accusations and all the hurt, nothing. When John hugged him, he just smiled (relieved) and hugged back after an awkward moment’s pause. 

“If it’s any consolation, I wasn’t planning on reliving it at any point in the near future.”

After a few more moments, they both stepped away to save their dignity in front of the strangers. Dean cleared his throat, stepping up from where he’d been leaning. 

“Not that the whole ‘heartfelt reunion’ thing isn’t warming the cockles of my heart, because really, it is, but we have a job to be getting to.” 

The Doctor frowned at that. “There’s a problem with the library? Funny, that. Part of the reason why we’re here, actually. Well. More of an extension cord plugged into the larger problem, but I’ll just take this and run with it. Right!” He clapped, rubbing his hands together and turning towards the Winchesters. “Now, do you boys actually know what it is you’re facing?”

He was met with the barrels of two guns, aimed squarely at his face.

“This again, can you believe it?” He looked back at Donna, but the sound of the gun being cocked changed his mind and closed his mouth.

Donna cleared her throat pointedly to demand attention, stepping around the Doctor with hands on her hips. “Now, you listen here. I have no idea who you two _clotheads_ are, but if you keep pointing those guns at him, you’ll have a lot more to worry about than a flipping disappearing man with a blue box!” She fixed the brothers with a hard stare. “Donna, Donna Noble. Because you never asked.”

The Doctor gave them a look over her squared shoulders, saying that they should probably listen.

Dean chuckled, but didn’t lower his weapon. “I like her.” Then he glanced across to Sam, almost nonchalantly. 

All throughout Donna’s rant, Sam had been reaching inside of his jumper to retrieve the bottle of holy water he kept inside of it, in a hidden pocket. By the time she was finished, he’d had it open and ready. The laugh and glance was a signal for him to strike, and he threw out the contents of the vial out onto the Doctor and Donna.

Donna gasped, blinking the sudden burst out of her eyes. The Doctor, understandably, looked a little put out, examining the neck of his suit (now wet as his hair and face), tugging at the waterlogged collar. Donna wiped off her forehead and childishly flicked the water back at Dean. 

“Now that we’ve gotten that over with, why are you two here, now, in this library? Or three, if you count Sherlock. Hello,” he grinned again before changing back to serious, a wave in the detective’s direction. “I’m the Doctor.”

Sherlock nodded in his direction and left it at that, but John spoke up, now that everyone wasn’t about to possibly murder one another (Dean and Sam with guns, and Donna with her look like daggers). “You know, I never asked. What does ‘the Doctor’ stand for?”

“The Doctor.”

John raised an eyebrow at the Doctor. “Doctor who?”

For a brief moment (it could’ve been a trick of their collective imagination, who knew), the Doctor’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, before coming back down to Earth. 

Well, wasn’t that an ironic sentence.

“Just the Doctor. Anyway, you two never answered my question.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. “Why are _you_ here?” Sam countered.

The Doctor paused for a moment, then shrugged nonchalantly. “Haven’t the faintest. I’ve just heard that there was something to be done here. After all, libraries are basically breeding grounds for trouble. A place containing a whole collection of the one thing you can’t kill in this world? It’s like a time bomb made out of letters, only everyone loves the place too much to take the proper precautions.”

Sherlock noted dryly; “The only dangers of a library could be wayward ciphers or possibly, a paper cut. You can wear gloves to protect yourself from that, however.”

The Doctor, undaunted by the detective’s sarcasm, carried on. “So, what were you looking for while you were here?”

Sam shuffled on his feet for a moment before answering. “We don’t know. That’s why we came here. Reconnaissance, you know.” Dean elbowed him in the side, and he let out a quiet ‘oof’ of air. “Point is,” the elder Winchester interjected. “That unless you have some magical way of telling us just what’s in here, then you should probably leave.” He tilted his head, mocking a thoughtful face. “Anytime now.”

The Doctor seemed like he was about to talk before his eyes alighted on Sherlock, and his mouth faded closed. “Sherlock,” he started, voice cautionary as though talking to a dog that was about to go berserk. “You’ve got two shadows.” He turned to Donna. “He’s got two shadows.”

Donna, in perhaps her most worrying action since the brothers, detective and army doctor had met her, swallowed uneasily. 

Sherlock looked back at the Doctor, then followed his gaze down to the floor. Where he was standing, partway in the light, partway in the shadows, there were two shadows stretching out behind him. “I had noticed, of course. I’d thought it an anomaly of the light, but judging by your look that isn’t the case.”

John tore his eyes away from the dual shadows to look up at the Doctor. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked, in a low voice. 

Sam and Dean, sensing something shifting in the air, stepped in closer to the TARDIS, which was shedding a soft pulsing light from the clean paint and the technology humming inside. “What he said,” Dean countered, looking around them. “The hell’s going on here?”

The edges of the shadows on the floor were fuzzing, shifting around on the floor only slightly, as though you were blinking or moving your head when you weren’t. A trick of perception.

“Everyone in the TARDIS.” The flippant tone of before had vanished from the Doctor’s voice, and he looked around at everyone, a new steel behind his gaze. “Now!”

And that was the moment when Sherlock decided to run. 

“No, no, no! I said _in_ the TARDIS! Sherlock!” The Doctor’s yelling of the wayward detective’s name was augmented by John yelling it too. The Winchesters were silent.

Because just before he’d left, they’d seen a flash of blank black in place of his eyes.


End file.
